I am a random gardener, a rebel.
I resist garden books, garden clubs, garden knowledge.
It’s a gamble.
This northern jungle thrives in its own way.
I observe and bend to its wishes.
Summer mellows into autumn.
“Oh, why not?” I wonder as I collect the dried centers
Of those few flowers that dare to bloom in the shade.
Hesparus, gathered from wild places.
Poppies, rare and stubborn.
Foxgloves and daisies and sweet peas.
Why not help them along?
Why not drop their DNA for them?
Why not feed them the rich black loam from the leaf piles?
Soil curves softly under my hands.
What have I got to lose?
Something to hope for as the snow feathers down
Something to dream about as the white drifts obscure
Something to imagine as the snowflakes cover and nourish
Spring surprises for free!
